Some Must Watch - Ethel Lina White (best book club books .TXT) 📗

chest.

 

At the sound of Simone’s knock, Stephen grimaced to him, as a sign to

him to remain silent.

 

The dog showed the lining of his ears, while his eyes rolled, revealing

their whites. Simone knocked louder and rattled the door-handle.

 

“Don’t come in,” shouted Stephen. “I’m dressing.”

 

“Then hurry. I want to see you.”

 

Simone sauntered back to the big red room, to find her husband already

in possession.

 

“No luck?” he asked casually, as he took off his coat.

 

“I told you not to follow me,” she said.

 

“I didn’t. I merely moved, in obedience to the natural law. Even

glaciers travel—although we don’t see them do it.”

 

“If, you travelled at their rate, I shouldn’t complain.”

 

Simone crossed to the wardrobe and took out the black velvet dinner

gown, which she had worn since her arrival at the Summit.

 

Rejecting it in favor of a backless gown of pale-pink angel-skin, she

drew it over her head.

 

“Excellent taste for a family dinner, in the wilds,” sneered Newton.

 

Simone looked at him defiantly. “I’m not wearing it for the benefit of

your family,” she told him.

 

She felt his eyes upon her, watching every process of making up her

complexion.

 

“A touch of perfume behind the ears,” he advised. “No man can resist

it.”

 

“Thanks for the reminder.”

 

Simone finished her toilef—eyes brilliant with temper and her lips

compressed. When she went out of the room, she deliberately flung the

door wide open, so that her husband could hear her footsteps cross the

landing to the bachelor’s room.

 

“Steve,” she called. “I want to speak to you.”

 

“Oh—all right.”

 

The pupil appeared, looked both crumpled and sulky.

 

“Your hair’s untidy,” said Simone, putting up her hands to part his

heavy wave.

 

“Don’t.” He shook his head impatiently. “I detest fiddling.”

 

“But I like doing it.”

 

“Then keep on doing it, my dear.”

 

Stephen ceased to protest, for the reason that he heard footsteps behind

him. He looked up at Newton with a malicious grin.

 

“You’ll get the benefit of this, Warren,” he said, “Your wife’s

practising on me,”

 

The veins swelled on Newton’s temples ashe watched his wife’s bare arms

clasped around Stephen’s neck. With a laugh and a backward sweep of her

hand, she rumpled his hair until it stood up in a mop.

 

“There—you’re finished,” she declared.

 

Newton burst into a hoot of amusement at Stephen’s discomfiture.

 

“He looks like Harpo,” he said. “I hope my wife will continue to use you

as her model, so long as she spares me that.”

 

Simone glanced at her husband’s stubborn crest.

 

“Where’s the difference?” she asked. “Stephen, you’ve not admired my new

dress.” Although the, young man had not even noticed her finery, he

stressed his admiration for Newton’s benefit.

 

“Well, I’m bowl over. Beautiful—and most revealing. I’ll never mistake

you for a nun again.”

 

Newton’s mouth tightened and his glasses magnified the ugly gleam in his

eyes, Stephen was selfconscious and truculent as Simone slowly revolved

to display a back which had been pronounced perfect.

 

The scene appeared an ordinary exhibition of herd-instinct, complicated

by a frustrate sense of ownership. Yet each released current of human

passion was another tributary to swell the tidal-wave, which, later,

would sweep Helen away, like a straw on flood-water.

 

Newton turned away, with an affected shrug.

 

“I’m afraid my wife’s dresses are not the same novelty to me,” he said,

“Oh—by the way, Rice—what have you done with that dog?”

 

“He’s in my bedroom,” snapped Stephen.

 

“In a bedroom? Really, than going too far. It’s hardly fair to the lady

of the house. If you take my advice, you’ll put him in the garage for

the night.”

 

“I’ll take nothing from you,” snarled Stephen.

 

“Not even my wife? Many thanks.”

 

Whistling in apparent unconcern, Newton strolled down the stairs,

without a backward glance.

 

Stephen bristled with defensive instinct, although he knew that Newton’s

attitude was reasonable.

 

“Hanged if I’ll park the pup in that draughty hole,” he stormed. “He

stays here—or I go with him,”

 

“For Heaven’s sake, forget the dog,” exclaimed Simone. Tell me if you

really like my dress,”

 

“What there is of it,” remarked Stephen, reverting to type, since Newton

pad gone. “I’m keen on seeing how a boxer strips, when I’ve backed him;

but I don’t care about bare backs out of the ring.”

 

“You brute,” Simone cried, “I put it on for you. I want you to remember

our last night. And me.”

 

“Sorry, my dear,” said Stephen lightly. “But I’m going to the Bull,

after dinner.”

 

Simone’s eyes blazed with sudden passion.

 

“You’re going to see that tow-headed barmaid,”

 

“Whitey? Yes. But I’m going to see something else, too. Beer. Glorious

beer.”

 

“Stay with me, instead…You’re the only man I’ve ever had to ask

before.”

 

Stephen stuck out his lip, like a spoiled child. He wanted an evening of

masculine society—the freedom and alcoholic good company of the little

country-inn. The landlord’s flaxen-haired daughter was merely incidental

to his pleasure, because she filled his mug.

 

He also wanted to get rid of Simone.

 

Had he known, he could have done so by a show of humility, or an

avalanche of attentions. But when he turned away from her, he snapped

yet another link of the chain which connected Helen with safety.

 

Almost running into his room, he slammed the door be hind him, and threw

himself on the bed.

 

“Women are the devil,” he told the Alsatian. “Never get married, my

lad.”

 

In an evil temper, Simone flounced down the stairs. On the landing, she

met Mrs. Oates who was showing Nurse Barker to her patient’s’ room. At

the sight of the ferocious-looking woman, her expression, slightly

cleared, for her jealousy was so inflamed that she would have resented

an attractive nurse.

 

“Young Mrs. Warren,” whispered Mrs. Oates, as she knocked at the door of

the blue room.’

 

Nurse Barker grunted, for she recognized the type. “Nymphomaniac,” she

said.

 

“Oh, no, she’s quite sane,” declared Mrs. Oates. “Just flighty.”

 

Miss Warren opened the door—a film of welcome in her pale eyes.

 

“I’m glad you’ve come, nurse,” she said.

 

“Yes, I expect you’re glad to pass on the job to me,” observed Nurse

Barker. “Can I see the patient?”

 

She stalked after Miss Warren, into the blue room, and stood beside the

bed, where Lady Warren lay in a shrunken heap, with closed clay-colored

lids. “I do hope she’ll take a fancy to you,” hinted Miss Warren

nervously.

 

“Oh, we’ll soon be friends,” said Nurse Barker confidently. “I’ve a way

with old people. They want kindness with firmness. They’re just like

children, at the other end.”

 

Lady Warren suddenly opened an eye which was not in the least

child-like, unless it was that of an infant shot out of an eternity of

sin.

 

“Is that the new nurse?” she asked.

 

“Yes, Mother,” replied Miss Warren.

 

“Send her away.” Miss Warren looked helplessly at the nurse.

 

“Oh dear,” she murmured, “I’m afraid she’s taken an other dislike.”

 

“That’s nothing,” said Nurse Barker. “She’s being a bit naughty, that’s

all. I’ll soon win her over.”

 

“Send her away,” repeated Lady Warren. “I want the girl back.”

 

Nurse Barker saw her chance of redeeming her unpopularity.

 

“You shall have her, tonight,” she promised.

 

Then she drew Miss Warren aside.

 

“Is there any brandy in the room?” she asked. “I’m medically ordered to

take a leetle stimulant.”

 

Miss Warren looked disturbed.

 

“I thought you understood this is a teetotal house,” she explained.

“As you know, you are paid a higher salary.”

 

“But it’s not safe to have no brandy in a sick room,” insisted Nurse

Barker.

 

“My mother depends on oxygen,” explained Miss War ren. “It is her life.

… Still… Perhaps… I’ll speak to the Professor.”

 

Driven before the towering form of Nurse Barker, she drifted across the

landing, like a withered leaf in the eddy of an east wind.

 

The professor appeared at his bedroom door, in answer to his sister’s

tap. He greeted the nurse with stony courtesy, and listened to her

request. “Certainly you may have brandy, if you require it,” he said. “I

will go down, at once, to the cellar, and send a bottle up to your

room.”

 

Helen, who was helping in the kitchen, glanced curiously at Mrs. Oates,

when the Professor asked her for a candle.

 

“I shall want you to hold it,” he said. “I’m going to the wine-cellar.”

 

Although the request amounted to mental cruelty, Mrs. Oates hastened to

obey. The electric pendant lit the passage only as far as the bend;

around the corner it was quite dark. She walked ahead of the Professor,

to guide him, and when she reached the door of the cellar, stood,

holding her candle aloft, like a pilgrim who had reached his Mecca.

 

The key turned in the lock, and Mrs. Oates and the Professor entered the

sacred place. Fat lumps of greed swam in the woman’s eyes as her master

selected a bottle from a bin.

 

As she gazed at it thirstily, the Professor glanced at the thermometer

which hung on the wall.

 

“That temperature cannot be right,” he said, thrusting the bottle into

her hands. “Hold this while I carry it to a better light.”

 

In a short time he returned from the passage, and relocked the cellar

door. This time, he led the way back to the kitchen, while Mrs. Oates

walked respectfully in his rear. As she passed through the scullery, she

ducked down for a second, beside the sink.

 

The Professor placed the bottle of brandy on the kitchen table and spoke

to Helen.

 

“Please take this up to the blue room, immediately, after Mrs. Oates has

drawn the cork.”

 

When they were alone Helen sympathized with Mrs. Oates.

 

“It’s a shame. Why don’t you keep back just a table spoonful, to drink

Lady Warren’s health?”

 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Mrs. Oates told her. “That nurse would know, and

split on me. Besides, it would be sin to water down such lovely stuff.”

 

Helen admired the fortitude with which the woman thrust the bottle into

her hands. “Run off with it, quick”, she said, “but be sure not drop

it.”

 

Directly she was alone, the secret of her courage was revealed.

Lumbering into the scullery, she groped for something she had hidden

under the sink.

 

Opportunity had knocked at her door, and she had been swift in her

response. When she returned to the kitchen, she smiled triumphantly at

her spoil, before she hid it away among the empties in her cupboard.

 

It was a second bottle of brandy.